Warning: this story contains sensitive topics such as grooming of a minor, kidnapping/wrongful imprisonment, mentions of suicide/death, and dubious matters of sexual/marital consent.

X

A few months earlier...

'Reefer' Rick

Ricardo 'Reefer Rick' Lipton eased his car into the parking lot, then cranked the key in the ignition. The car fell quiet with a vehement grumble as Rick leaned back in the driver's seat. There, sitting on the porch step with his head buried in a book, was Edward Munson - or, as the folks around town called him - Eddie 'the Freak' Munson. What folks didn't realize was kids like the Munson boy had been around long before them, their grandparents, and their grandparent's parents. Rebellion took on many forms throughout the years. This year, rebellion was shaggy hair, black jeans, and silver chains.

Still, Eddie was a good kid. Rick couldn't help but feel a lump rise in his throat whenever he saw Eddie. The young man was on the verge of something for sure - bound to either end up as a gas station attendant or a rock 'n roll legend too famous to even fathom. Rick hoped that Eddie would do well in life, and not end up like him. Which wasn't to say that Rick hadn't done well - he'd just rather see Eddie bloom beyond the confines of drug peddling in a place like Hawkins.

"Y'alright there, kid?" Rick called as he stepped out of his car and slammed the door shut. Eddie glanced up in surprise, his fist shoved against his lips as he watched Rick approach. Even from a distance, Rick could tell that Eddie's face was paler than usual. Christ, either the kid was blazed out of his mind or he was sober as a gopher. Both were equally concerning prospects.

"Didn't think we scheduled a pick-up for today," Rick said. He stopped in front of Eddie and placed one foot on the porch step, crooking his elbow against his knee as he looked at the book in Eddie's hands. Beacons of Righteousness: A Brief History.

Aw, shit, Rick thought as he spit a popcorn kernel out the corner of his lips. Here we go again.

"I need a favor, man," Eddie said, his voice shaky and tell-tale. Something was wrong. "I know I ask you all the time but-"

"You keep readin' them cult books, people are gonna start to think you're crazy, kid. This town's got too much time on its hands. Y'know folks like to gossip and whatnot."

"Least I'm giving them something to do, right? You know, honestly, they should thank me."

Rick couldn't help but grin. He had always appreciated Eddie's deflective humor. "All I'm sayin' is this, kid. One of these days that gossip is gonna build into somethin' real nasty, somethin' you may not be able to climb yourself out of. Not trying to be an ass. I'm just tellin' it like it is."

"Yeah, about that favor," Eddie interrupted him. "I need to borrow your boat."

"Boat's not for borrowin'. You would know that if you paid attention the first time I told you."

"I know, I know! It's just -look!" Eddie pulled a folded-up map from his back pocket and spread it across his knee. Rick immediately noticed his shaking fingers and the red indents on his knuckles where he had bitten down on them. Eddie was sober, and going through the least forgiving stage of sobriety: regret, and that slightly panicked stage of I need to right my wrongs. "There's this little island off the coast - maybe a few miles out from the Farm. If I can borrow your boat, I can just go and get a lay of the land. Y'knowwhatImean? Just see if-"

"Kid," Rick said tiredly. "It's been months."

"I know that, man," Eddie cried. "I know! I just fucking - no stone left unturned, right?"

"The police are good at their jobs. You gotta have faith in 'em, kid. If there's any-" Rick stopped himself before he could say the word 'remains. "If there's anything out there, they would've found it, trust."

"Trust?" Eddie looked away and chuckled in disbelief. "The police don't know her like I do, alright? Finding her means nothing to them and everything to me."

Eddie was still talking in the present tense. The lump rose in Rick's throat as he stared down at him. Rick wished that young love was a drug that he could bottle and sell. Folks would hand over their life savings in an instant just to get one, sweet hit.

He groaned as he sat down beside Eddie, feeling every creak and pop in his limbs. Damn, when had he gotten so old? He could still remember being Eddie's age. Back then Rick had been so full of zest and fireball energy and love. But he'd never admit that to Eddie. He didn't want to risk Eddie calling him 'old as the dawn of dirt' again.

"I get it, kid," Rick said as he leaned back on his elbows. "I really do. You'll tear up this whole world just to find her again. And I respect that - more than that, I support it. So I'll let you borrow my boat - only on the condition that I go with you. Can't have your head all fucked up while you're out there on the water. But, kid, I need you to understand something - and it will be hard for you, I get that. The fact of the matter is that it's been months. There was a witness. And ain't nobody can survive a fall like that-"

"Say what you really mean, old man."

Rick closed his eyes and lifted his head into the sunlight. For one deceptive and even calming moment, everything felt so peaceful. It was a summer day. His neighbor's dock creaked as the waves swept against the pillars. Somewhere, a small critter rustled through the bushes and then fell silent. Rick ground his teeth together, then opened his eyes and held Eddie's gaze. It was easy to assume that Eddie was older than he really was. It was just something about those hopeful, and bottomless brown eyes.

"Listen, kid," Rick said. "Tony is dead. And Marshall probably is, too."

X

Present day...

Antoinette 'Tony' Shields

The old recorder had begun to give out. It delivered its muffled, slightly staticky sounds as if it were an actor reciting its lines for the thousandth time. It was easier to anticipate the timing of the sounds, rather than hear them. First, there was the studded growl of the drill, followed by six knocks from a hammer. Several workers conversed in low tones, their conversation unintelligible and long since forgotten. Sometimes Tony felt like a thief for stealing away their voices and keeping them trapped in her recorder.

Beneath the sounds of the recording, she heard the fizzle and hiss of a matchstick flaring to life. She yanked the headphones off of her head and lunged across the driver's seat. Marshall blew smoke in her face then held the joint out of the window, out of her reach.

"Hey - hey! Don't do that," she warned him. She tugged at his arm and snatched the joint from his fingers, extinguishing it in the dirty cup holder. He pulled his sunglasses down to peer at her in amusement.

"Take it easy, compadre. Your nerves could use an overhaul."

"Who said anything about nerves," she asked in exasperation. At some point during the start of the year, he had started using odd monikers in place of her usual nickname, like she was one of his bar buddies or something. No doubt Marshall was still trying to be That Cool Guy whose pet names were like little badges of honor.

She snapped the visor down and assessed her reflection. It was everything that she feared: dark circles beneath the eyes, hair hardened to a helmet beneath fifty-cent gel, that porous and dehydrated look of someone battling a hangover. She flicked the visor shut and threw herself back into the passenger seat.

"I'm not nervous," she reiterated. "You're nervous. You're-" she struggled to think of the right word, the one that Andrea used all the time. "You're projecting."

"Haven't even set foot in class and already you're using those big, fancy words. Huh. Slow it down, turbo."

Tony repressed the urge to inform him that 'projecting' wasn't really that big of a word. She tugged the wires of her headphones between her fingers as they stared out the window. Hawkins High appeared drab and unassuming, all pale orange brickwork and silver accents that had long since rusted over. Students stood in idle gaggles upon the lawn and weaved their way between the cars in the parking lot. The VHS tapes made it seem as if high school students could be easily partitioned into cliques. But, aside from a few girls in cheerleading uniforms and bulky guys in varsity jackets, Tony could not differentiate one group from the next.

"Yep." Marshall leaned back and Tony realized, with a sinking sense of disappointment, that he had relit the joint. He draped his hand out the window and fluttered smoke between the gap in his front teeth. "I remember my first day of high school. Y'know, I got dragged halfway across the lawn for showin' up in my papa's cast-off tweed suit. Thought I looked mighty smart but, boy, did I learn my lesson."

She struggled to imagine Marshall in a tweed suit - much less Marshall attending school. It was easier to envision Marshall as one of those 18th-century street urchin kids, running around with soot on their faces and snatching bracelets from women's wrists. That morning, Marshall had rolled out of bed in a pair of silk leopard print pajamas. When she had asked - in a tight, alarmed voice - if he was really going to wear that to her first day of high school, he had shrugged on a corduroy jacket and demanded to know if she wanted to stop by the Ritz, too. Now, she glanced at his bare chest beneath the threadbare corduroy and wished that she had taken the bus.

"Listen, doll. The key to surviving high school is this-" he placed his hand on the back of her neck and drummed his fingers along her skin. "Find the potheads. Stick-with-'em. They know more about the school than any pamphlet could ever tell you."

"I told you that I'm playing it straight," she hissed. The cheerleaders began to perform a synchronized dance at the edge of the lawn. She watched their green pom-poms flutter through the air and suddenly felt queasy. "No pot. No booze. No cigs. Nothin'."

"Y'know what I have to say to that?" Marshall slid his hand beneath his coat, then tugged it out to reveal a stiff middle finger. She couldn't help but laugh as he wagged his tongue and wriggled his eyebrows.

"You're a fuckin' clodplate, did you know that?" she hissed, then punched him in the shoulder.

She stepped out of the car and slammed the door shut behind her. It was an all-white Lincoln Mark: a brand, spankin' new vehicle that had spearheaded a new generation of the Continental Mark luxury vehicle series. It was Marshall's prized possession, the cost of which had taken him out of Andrea's good graces. Slamming its door constituted an insult that would never be forgiven. She tugged the strap of her bag higher along her shoulder as she surveyed the campus. Already, several of the groups upon the lawn had turned their heads her way. She could see that paralyzed look of shock on their faces as they watched Marshall climb from the driver's seat and push his sunglasses along his silver-streaked mane.

"Yep," he said again, his voice deepened by the smoke in his throat. "I think-"

They both heard it at the same time: tires squealing to their left. Marshall pulled her against his chest and shielded her with his bulk right as a beat-up van bounced to a stop beside them. Tony heard the whine of metal against metal as the van's doors slid against the Lincoln's. Already, she could imagine the scuffed paint job and the red-faced horror on Marshall's face.

Oh no, she thought to herself as Marshall stormed towards the van. Oh no, no, no.

All eyes were on them now. Marshall was the king of making a scene, and she knew that he was on the verge of forcing a first impression that Hawkins High would not soon forget. She cursed vehemently beneath her breath as she stumbled around the Lincoln's bumper and grabbed his shoulders. But it was too late. Marshall tugged open the van's door and yanked the driver out by the collar of his shirt.

"Take it easy, man!" The driver's voice cracked as Marshall dropped him onto the hot asphalt. The young man squirmed around and then stumbled to his feet, his expression a mix of surprise and mounting rage. Tony had seen his type before. His look screamed ketamine, punk rock, and shock value. If there was one person on that campus who could withstand a punch from Marshall, it was that shaggy-haired van driver.

"You gonna pay for that, boy?" Marshall asked. Tony winced at his condescending tone and peered around. The students were drawing closer, drawn like moths to lamplight by the scene. The van driver tucked his arms around his chest and leaned forward with a smile. It wasn't a pacifying smile but rather a smile of pure, and utter disbelief.

"What the hell did you just call me," the van driver asked, drawing closer to Marshall. It was uncanny, his ability to stand his ground against Marshall's infamously stony gaze. Tony wedged herself between them and placed a warning hand on both their chests.

"Sorry about him," she said quickly, tossing her chin in Marshall's direction. The van driver's eyes flicked towards her in disinterest, and then back to Marshall. Christ, Tony thought to herself, it's like trying to stop two stray dogs from fighting. "H-he's not a morning person."

It was a desperate attempt at lightening the mood. The van driver met eyes with her once again, and this time his gaze lingered. It traveled along her patched, bell-bottom jeans and the missing buttons at the bottom of her vest. Marshall turned away with a scoff and inspected the damage to his car.

"Guess I'm not much of a morning person either. Alright, alright!" The young man threw his hands up and then knelt beside Marshall to inspect the dent in the Lincoln. "Look, man, I was at fault. Just give me an hour and I'll get that fixed up for you."

"You know your way around cars?" Marshall asked. The driver tucked his arms around his chest again and shrugged high. It was a slightly effeminate and theatrical gesture that Tony found inexplicably charming.

"Been drivin' since I was twelve."

"I'm not counting training wheels, kid," Marshall said.

"Neither am I, old man."

There it was - that zoned-in look shared between the two men as if they were trying to decide if it was worth throwing the first punch. For the first time in a long time, Tony worried that Marshall was on the verge of getting his ass handed to him. Then Marshall smiled. He wrapped his arm around the van driver's shoulder and gave him a one-sided hug.

"I like you," Marshall said, gesturing to the young man with the tip of his joint. "What's your name, compadre?"

"Eddie." The young man slipped the joint from Marshall's fingers and took a quick, surreptitious hit.

"Eddie Munson," he added, his voice clogged by smoke. "So no hard feelings about the-" he twirled his ringed finger at the Lincoln and gave a two-toned whistle.

"No hard feelings, brother," Marshall said. "Listen, I got a job for you at my shop. I could use someone with a bit of know-how to get a few cars up and running again. You good for the task?"

"Yeah," the young man named Eddie said. His eyes met Tony's again and he startled, somewhat dramatically. "Don't think I caught your name, miss-?"

"Marianne," Marshall answered swiftly. In any other case, Tony would have been vexed by Marshall answering for her. But this time she felt relieved, for something about Eddie's eyes had put her on the verge of revealing her true name. He held his hand out and she shook it limply, acutely aware of the clammy coldness of his clutch.

"Ma-ri-anne," Eddie repeated, his tone amused and his smile genuine as if she was the only Marianne in the world - as if she was interesting and worthy of a second thought, not someone whom he had just met a few seconds ago. She could feel Marshall staring at her from behind Eddie's shoulder, warning her away from the shaggy-haired compadre with nice teeth and chocolate button eyes. Nope, nope, huh-uh. No getting distracted, she thought as she turned swiftly upon her heel and marched away. Become the small, gray pebble. And stay that way.